No Monster
by pherede
Summary: "He is in need, Barsad can tell; and Barsad has one goal in life, to meet Bane's needs." Barsad Bane's right-hand man enlists the help of the pretty terrorist kid from the beginning of the movie to give Bane a little... help.


Author's note: In the first scene of the movie, there is an ultra-pretty terrorist kid, one of Bane's men, who agrees to go down with the plane so there'll be a terrorist body. I've named him Phillip and written something extremely inappropriate about him and I'm sorry. This is... racy.

* * *

They call him a beast, a sadist, Gotham's tyrant liberator; but to most of them, he is a rich cruel voice on the television, a shadow unseen by the lucky, and to those people the fear that billows around Bane like a cloak is greater than any anonymous bomb in a truck.

Barsad knows better; he has seen adoration in the eyes of an army of passionate young men, boys written off by society as criminal and incorrigible, vandals and rapists and drug addicts, hundreds upon hundreds of them all standing attentive with eyes spilling out love. Barsad knows better than to trust his own judgement, but surely no man loved by so many can be a monster in his heart.

And he himself is one of these lost boys, in spirit. Their halfway houses and orphanages are alien to him, but he knows, oh he knows about that love. When Bane speaks to him, trusts him, admonishes him- Barsad would accept a bullet for him, would take a beating from him, would take a knife from Bane's own hand for nothing more than Bane's pleasure, if that was what pleased Bane.

Now, though, he is standing in the door-shadows of the office basement where Bane sleeps, blind to the orange sulfur-light of streetlamps falling through the high barred windows, deaf to the city-sounds of Gotham's nighttime rain. He has stood here before, deliberating, guilty; he has watched this before, and wondered if he presumed too much, or if Bane would appreciate his help.

On his bed, a mattress and box-spring with no frame, Bane is sitting upright with his back pressed to the wall, a tower of muscle and flesh, naked except for his mask and a thin sheet pooled across his powerful thighs, head lolled back and right hand slowly stroking his massive cock.

He does not perform this ritual every night, nor even every week; but when he does, Barsad sees, because Barsad is always watching Bane. And it's always the same: first these slow, intimate strokes, like the hand of a lover, sweeping from root to tip and caressing the head before returning; then a grunt of frustration, a roll of the hips, a sudden shift to roughness that has Bane thrusting up into his fist with every jerk at his cock; and then a sigh, resignation to an unsatisfying end, and Bane will slump against the wall and pump himself with no finesse or passion until he spills across his fist and shudders.

He is in need, Barsad can tell; and Barsad has one goal in life, to meet Bane's needs.

So Barsad has enlisted a boy, a sweet-mouthed young man in his twenties with dark hair and a fanatic's light in his eyes, Phillip is his name. He would have found a woman, but there are no women down here; Bane will not allow it, saying that no woman belongs in a pit. He hopes that Bane will understand; he fears that Bane will turn him down.

Barsad would do this himself, willingly, even though he has never been a man to look at other men; but he has no skill, and Phillip says he has been with several men, and can offer more than Barsad's desperate fumbling loyalty.

"Bane," says Barsad, steeling himself to speak before he loses his nerve.

Bane doesn't even look startled; he pauses with one hand stilled around his cock and replies: "You're in the wrong place, Barsad."

"Forgive me, sir. I... I don't like to watch you suffer. I've brought someone to... take care of you."

The look in Bane's eyes turns to ice. "Barsad, have you brought me a _prostitute_? Are you mad?"

"No, no sir," says Barsad, stumbling for words. "You know that you are loved by every man among us. We would die for you, sir. And Phillip-"

Phillip steps forward into the dim rainwashed light, momentarily illuminated by the lights of a passing car outside the basement windows. Fanatic devotion makes his face practically glow.

Bane simply stares at him, eyes narrowed in judgement, and Barsad holds his breath, knowing that if he's misjudged and overstepped his bounds, he will suffer for it.

Then Bane inclines his head toward Phillip. "Come here," he says, and Phillip obeys, standing at the foot of the bed as if mesmerized by the hard, naked flesh of Bane's body. Barsad takes a step forward as well, shifting to look at Bane's face.

Bane looks him over well. "I should send you away," he says. "This is insolence of the highest degree, both of you."

"Please," says Phillip, and Bane tilts his head, quick eyes searching Phillip's face and finding something there. Bane's whole body relaxes and he fixes Phillip with an inscrutable gaze.

"Very well," replies Bane. "I will accept your offering of loyalty." And with that, he kicks the sheet away entirely and removes his hand from the shaft of his cock.

He's huge. He is _terrifyingly_ large, his immense cock proportionate to the enormity of his body. Barsad's mouth goes dry, and he hears Phillip cough in shock. Barsad has known for a long time that Bane's a large man- he's seen brief glimpses as he peers through the dark at his master- but now that there is a question of putting it inside another's body, the idea seems ludicrous.

But Phillip is, true to his word, talented, and he crawls up the bed with his eyes downcast like the bride of a conquering warlord. When he reaches Bane's cock, he goes to wrap his mouth around it, but Bane covers himself with one massive hand and addresses Barsad.

"Do you trust him," says Bane, looking Barsad directly in the eye.

"As much as I can trust anyone," replies Barsad, "but if you like I can stay close by."

"Close indeed," says Bane, and looks back at Phillip's pleading dark eyes. "Brother, if Barsad trusts you, I will honor that trust. But if any harm comes to me or to him, you will beg God to let you die."

Then he takes his hand away, and Barsad feels the moment burning into his memory: Phillip's mouth stretched to its limit around Bane's shaft, and Bane letting his head roll back to groan in pleasure.

Barsad can tell that Phillip has some variety of experience, but he can also tell that Bane's cock is challenging him. Barsad watches Bane's abdomen tighten and release, over and over, a ripple of muscle that reminds Barsad of some primeval, powerful beast moving under the surface of a lake. Bane, he realizes, is preparing to thrust.

And thrust he does, choking Phillip awfully; the young man pulls away from Bane's cock, gasping, and Bane snarls at him.

But Phillip tries again, taking him in with a muffled moan of discomfort, and he lasts for almost five minutes that way, though sweat springs forth on his body- naked now, except for his boxer-briefs, which barely contain Phillip's own erection. When he falls away again, gasping, Barsad discovers that his own cock is desperately hard.

"I can't," chokes Phillip. "You're so fucking huge. It's like trying to swallow your arm."

Bane growls at this, frustration evident in his eyes, but even though Phillip goes back to his work, Barsad can tell that Phillip's fatigue is keeping him from doing justice to Bane's cock.

So he steps forward, heart pounding in his throat, and says: "Maybe I can help."

Phillip seems almost humiliatingly grateful; he nods at Barsad and rubs his jaw, watching as Barsad crosses the room in three strides and kneels beside Bane on the bed.

This is something he knows he can do, something he has seen often enough to know how Bane likes it; he strokes Bane's cock, rolls his balls gently, scratches lightly along his thighs. A tortured moan escapes Bane, and Barsad feels like a conqueror.

And if Bane thrusts violently up into Barsad's hand, it is no great challenge to maintain contact. Bane's cock feels heavy, thick and velvet, uncut and loose-skinned so that it's easy to roll Bane's retracted foreskin up and over the glans.

Barsad wonders how it would taste.

"Suck him," says Phillip, encouraging him on. So Barsad, never one to back down from his duty, bends low over Bane's body and places his lips, still closed, against Bane's glans. There is sticky fluid, just a bit, and Barsad licks his lips against the faintly bitter taste, distracted by the strange confused emotions that rack him, not noticing that with each lick of his lips he flickers his tongue against Bane. He doesn't notice until Phillip points it out, calls it _teasing_.

"Like this," says Phillip, pushing him over a little to stretch his lips around the tip of Bane's cock. After a few smooth plunges, cheeks hollowing to create suction, Phillip motions to Barsad: _try it like this_.

So Barsad does, as soon as Phillip comes up for air; he opens wide, he wraps his teeth in his lips, and he sinks onto Bane's cock like a starving man. It is _very_ difficult. The patter of rain outside is drowned by the thunder in Barsad's chest, and although his mouth tires quickly, Barsad can hardly bear to give Phillip his turn.

They work at him like this for ages, urging Bane and each other on; when Phillip is working his mouth on Bane's cock, Barsad is licking his lips, biting and pinching at Bane's hipbones. When Barsad's mouth is impaled to its limit with the first third of Bane's cock, Phillip goes to work on Bane's body, palming his belly and chest, raking his teeth over flesh and muscle and tightening nipples.

Bane simply groans; there is no begging in it though, only pride and enjoyment, looking down at the two men fighting over his cock with an ever-darkening expression that hints of possessiveness.

And rightly so; they belong to him, both Barsad and Phillip. Bane is not a man who makes allies and trades favors; he is a man who draws men up from the gutter and makes them his own. Delirious, Barsad envisions the scores of these men, some with wives and children, not a single one of whom would balk for a moment at this duty, at this chance.

Even though Bane cannot hold himself back from thrusting anymore, and it's all the work that Barsad _and_ Phillip can manage; worse, Bane's frustrated growls tell Barsad clearly that these interruptions are holding him back.

Phillip can sense it too. "Bane, sir. Would this be better if you just... fucked one of us?"

"God," says Bane, "do you even know what you're asking," but his cock jumps in Barsad's abused mouth, and they all three know where this is going; someone is going to take this, take Bane's impossibly thick cock, and Barsad discovers with a sick jolt that _he_ wants to be the one who takes it.

Barsad should be alarmed by the obvious relief in Phillip's eyes when he makes his offer; after all, Phillip is much more familiar with this than he is, and Barsad is clearly the fool rushing in where black-eyed beautiful cock-sucking angels fear to tread.

Phillip is the one who prepares him, pushing Barsad onto his back with legs outspread, stretching him open with lubricated finger after finger until Barsad's aching hole is clutching at Phillip's knuckles; he knows he is stretched to his limit, even with Phillip's thumb resting against his perineum, unable to work its way in beside the four fingers. Barsad looks at Phillip's free hand, holding him immobile by his trembling thigh muscles, and then he looks at Bane, who is slowly pumping his cock, watching with a stoked fire in his eyes.

There is simply no way he can do this. He will surely die.

But death is such a small thing, compared to Bane's suffering; Barsad will take anything his master gives him, even at the cost of his own body.

So he turns over, hands and knees, and braces himself with one palm against the wall as Bane kneels behind him. One strong hand traces the trail of his spine before tightening on his hip; the other sets Bane's cock at his entrance, and he _pushes_.

Barsad can't help it; he howls. Phillip is instantly there with him, sliding half under his body to provide support as Barsad loses his grip on the wall and collapses, gasping, face buried in Phillip's shoulder and ass thrust upward, quivering against the enormous intrusion.

This is only the head of Bane's cock, and Bane has to work to get the rest of himself in. Barsad's ass stretches and burns; already he is losing his grasp on consciousness, and as Bane forces his way in- a series of tiny adjustments and pressures that leave Barsad's whole body sensitized and terrified- he feels darkness closing around him, a high-pitched syncopal hum.

"Easy," murmurs Phillip. "Breath with me, brother." Barsad forces his breathing to calm, matching the inhalations and exhalations of the beautiful boy under him, and curiously enough it helps. The hum retreats, leaving him without even a hint of numbness; Bane is almost fully sheathed in him now, only slightly slippery with lube at this depth, and the stretch is _tremendous_. Barsad struggles not to gasp; he is so _full_ that every breath is labored, and he writhes.

Then Bane draws back, a huge dragging _wrong_ sensation, and Barsad opens his mouth to whimper, only to have his cries absorbed by Phillip's talented mouth and to find his cock encircled in Phillip's long articulate hand.

Barsad is going to be wrecked, he is going to shatter into a thousand pieces the moment Bane slides back into him. If it were any other man, Barsad would have fought back, would have struggled to get away; but this is Bane, and even if his cock splits Barsad into pieces, he will bear it. He has no other choice.

At his hip, Barsad feels Bane's hand gripping him, steadying him, imprisoning him. It makes Barsad sick with a kind of relief: this is no longer in his hands. He is always relieved to follow Bane's commands, knowing that his master has a plan, trading the burden of self-reliance for the simplicity of deference.

Now, it is all that stands between him and tears of dreadful anticipation. He does not have to withstand this; it will be done to him, done with him, for Bane's good above his own.

All of these words and worries evaporate as Bane thrusts himself back in. Barsad screams, chokes, strains against Bane's grasp on hip and thigh; but Phillip holds his head steady, pulling Barsad's forehead down onto his own neck, cradling him gently but implacably. With his free hand, Phillip reaches under Barsad's upthrust body and wraps a hand around Barsad's cock.

"It's not so bad," murmurs Phillip in his ear. "I'll take care of you, Barsad. You can bear this, if you relax, if you let me touch you."

And he's right. Barsad has been struggling to relax the whole time, determined to give pleasure at any cost; but now Phillip is making it about _his_ pleasure too, about all three of them together. And with Phillip stroking him and kissing him, the fullness of his ass is transformed into a strange and compelling sensation. For the first time, he bucks upward, counterthrusting against Bane, trying to take more.

He immediately regrets it, though. He is so tight, so full, that he begins to wonder if he can survive this. He imagines Bane coming in him, jets of white semen filling his gut and displacing his diaphragm (or is that just the immensity of the cock buried in him, making it hard to do more than sob for breath), and he shudders.

But Phillip knows what he's doing, his fingers are nimble and inexhaustible, and Barsad can hardly help relaxing as Bane plows him open, leaning over him to rest his fists on the mattress and straddle them both. He is awash with sensation, some of it terrifying, some of it pleasurable, and most of it deeply confusing.

Still Phillip works at him, and Barsad feels himself twitching and pleading around Bane's almighty cock. It hurts; it is still too much; and as the tremors of approaching, inevitable orgasm begin to prickle through Barsad's body, Bane picks up his pace, slamming into Barsad's body again and again. Bane pays no attention to Barsad's cries; he is a leader, and he does not obey the pleadings of his men. Bane, Barsad realizes (though he is whimpering like an animal, making sounds so inhuman he scarcely believes they're coming from his throat), is driving himself to orgasm, buried in Barsad's ass.

Phillip begins to wriggle, working his way down the bed until his forehead lies at Barsad's collarbone and his cock is nestled up against his ass; then there is a moment of unbearable, awful, screaming pressure that sets Barsad to cursing, burying his cries in the bedpillows.

There are two cocks in him now, filling him more than he has ever before imagined. Still Phillip pulls at his cock, jacking him unmercifully in time with their twin thrusts, and even with the pain and the feeling of _wrong too much_, Barsad feels himself trembling, feels his air coming in shorter and shorter gasps, and he knows that he can no longer control himself. His toes curl and clutch; spasms rock his body, tensing his hole around the intruders, and as he feels Bane snap still and rigid, feels the fluttering of come bathing his insides, he knows that he, too, is coming.

He spills over Phillip's knuckles, spattering come between them; Phillip doesn't even seem to notice, he's so close. For a moment, Barsad thinks he will explode with the volume of their come; then, still wracked with the aftershocks of orgasm, Bane reaches beneath himself and pulls Phillip's balls, ungently.

It is not a subtle hint; Phillip pulls out with a series of heartfelt groans that subside into begging, and then he is rutting against the seed-slicked skin of Barsad's belly, riding from beneath until he, too, comes with a helpless cry, shuddering and jerking sharply against Barsad's skin and painting them both with his come.

At last Bane is finished, and withdraws; Barsad can feel Bane's come dripping from his hole as he rolls onto his side, against Phillip.

Already, the languor of afterglow is disappearing in Bane's eyes. He is staring at Phillip in a way that brings up a tiny kernel of jealousy in Barsad's heart.

"You are a bold, brash young man," says Bane at last. "And you presume a great deal." Barsad wonders if this last is aimed at him too.

"Still," continues Bane, settling back down on the mattress, heedless of the sticky wetness on the sheets, "you have shown great loyalty to me, Phillip. Few men would withdraw this way at my command. And in the months to come, I will have great need of a man whose loyalty has been well-tested. Phillip, I will watch you, and someday I will use you in ways you do not expect. Be warned."

"I will do anything you ask," breathes Phillip, and Barsad wonders if he should be jealous, or if he should simply walk away, and he wonders how Bane will use this lovely boy. And as he drifts in and out of consciousness, so well-fucked he can hardly move, he wonders if perhaps someday Bane will use him too.


End file.
